When I was a kid, I would spend hours analyzing and dissecting details of high fashion magazines. The photography entranced me, page after page pieces of haute couture drew me in; it was my realization that fashion is wearable art. I was fascinated. I collected every issue of W magazine I could get my hands on, creating such a heavy pile that my basic closet wire shelving gave way. Minimalistic advertisements were my favorite, stunning models poised & breathless on glossy pages, draped in sharp silhouettes, adorned with glinting jewels. It became common place to have magazine tear-outs of Diesel and Prada’s latest ad campaigns directly competing with my favorite musicians for wall space.
Growing up in central jersey didn’t exactly expose me to the finer things in life, nor did I grow up experiencing poverty. My parents were middle class, financially responsible, and intentionally frugal. We had periods of comfortability where my mom would treat my brother and I (The Limited Too was my go-to) and other times where we that just wasn’t possible. I recall being enthralled by the idea of going out to eat for a birthday; dining in a restaurant became rare for a few years. I remember offering to work to help support the family at 16, but my parents refused. They always made sure we had what we needed as kids, and that we stayed “kids” as long as possible.
I grew up to wear what I knew to be acceptable in my environment. In high school, I often was too exhausted to dress myself in anything other than school branded sweat sets, with the phrase ‘SENIORS 2007’ screen printed in white down the right leg. It was easy and safe from judgement. Back then my style felt conformative; I adapted to buying whatever my friends were wearing and adopted what I thought was their own personal sense of style.
Over time, I obtained a monstrous pile of unwearable clothing. Terrible $20 shirts and pants made of frankenstein-esque polyester and acrylic blends littered every inch of my closet, overflowing into my room. The pile haunted me. Younger me made sure to spare no color or print, no matter how clashing. It was incredibly wasteful. The clothes never made me feel good about myself. My logic was more clothes = more options = more outfits = more style = happiness. More is more, right?
I was chasing a feeling unattainable through quick fixes. I craved the brash stability I witnessed as a girl emanated by both men and women alike, statuesque in contrasting lines positioned opposed stark backgrounds. They were powerful, confident, visible. They looked as if they could take on the world. Everything I had understood clothes to make me feel was beneficial to my future self, yet here I found myself suffocating under a mound of impulsive fast fashion purchases that disgusted and depressed me.
This specific day was the catalyst for my transformation. In was a hot day in July 2018. Here I was with my amazing fiance, enjoying a beautiful day. I remember a sweet couple nearby offering to take pictures of us, and being thrown into a depression immediately after viewing them. I felt great, I was comfortable and in colorful clothes, and happy: but somehow, this feeling didn’t translate to my appearance in photos. I remembering crying and crying. My now-husband did everything he could to reassure me, but I could clearly see who I felt I was and who I was showing up as wasn’t equating.
Fast-forward to August 2022, I’m pregnant with twin girls and even though I’ve gained weight and am dealing with daily body changes due to the pregnancy, I’m feeling so much more like me in my skin. Tuning back into that younger version of myself, alone in her room marinating in vogue gave me the answers. It’s so cliche to say “the answer was within you all along” but I think there’s truth and power to this. It took a lot of time. It took a lot of pictures to even start to feel comfortable. I researched poses, researched my body and skin types to understand which silhouettes and colors flatter me. I had to do a lot of experimentation with shopping to find out what I thought I liked vs. what actually flattered me. It’s time consuming but I knew the effort was all going towards investing in myself.
Other than the feeling of now feeling more comfortable and confident in my own skin, the process gave me the gift of grace. Grace for myself, specifically; I was always ready and able to give it to others. I realized how difficult the entire process was, but I found that I wasn’t alone. I found an entire community of women and men who struggle with the same thing, yet persevere through style experimentation and transparency with their journey. They’re my peers and I admire them and their resilience immensely. It made me softer with myself, less critical and more open to embracing perceived flaws.
Now, nearly two years postpartum, I find myself constantly shedding old skins to make room for something better. Growth may appear simple and linear, it’s rarely the case. I, however, am already looking towards the future. Part of my life’s journey is to embrace my life-long edit and be true to that little couture-obsessed girl who still resides in me. I just want to make her proud.
